By Israel Adebiyi

Power is a strange thing. To some, it is a crown that dazzles; to others, it is a sword that conquers. Yet history, both ancient and modern, is replete with reminders that power is fleeting, fragile, and often fatal to those who cling to it without wisdom. Nigeria’s Rivers State has, in recent months, provided a theatre where this truth has played out in its rawest form, a play in which the actors ranged from elected governors to godfathers in high places, from lawmakers turned pawns to a weary citizenry who bore the bruises of political combat.

As you may have learnt, the democratically elected Governor Siminalayi Fubara is back in the saddle. What a traumatising six months it must have been for the man who thought being the Chief Security Officer of his state truly makes him the man in charge. What a tormenting time it must have been for the legislature, those who, entrusted with making laws, would rather sink the ship of state than allow Fubara to sail. And what excruciating experience it must have been for the people of Rivers themselves: to have their choice nearly swapped for a civilian in khaki, to watch their lives held hostage by political gladiators in a power struggle that never had their welfare at heart.

At the centre of this drama stood the godfather, one who straddles Abuja and Port Harcourt, ministering to the Federal Capital Territory while seeking to lord it over Rivers, unchallenged. His triumphs and setbacks are well-documented, but the bigger question remains: what has the political elite learnt from all this? From potential godsons, to godfathers, to supporters, to the rest of us, the truth is painfully clear, no one wins in a state of anarchy, not even the chest-beating King Kong.

The Rivers imbroglio reinforces a timeless principle: governance does not happen in chaos. The seat of power may be occupied, but when the instruments of state are weaponised against one another, the business of the people suffers. Schools do not function, hospitals languish, investments are scared away, and trust in government crumbles. A peaceful atmosphere is the precondition for governance, for no policy, no matter how well-crafted, can thrive in the soil of instability.

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In this sense, what happened in Rivers is not new. History shows us that the vanity of power games leaves behind a trail of ruins. Rome, mighty and invincible, crumbled not because its armies lost their strength but because its leaders indulged in intrigues, conspiracies, and betrayal, weakening the republic from within. In Africa, the ghosts of Liberia’s civil war and Sierra Leone’s dark decade still whisper lessons of how political egos, once unchecked, descend into rivers of blood where the people are the ultimate casualties.

Even in more stable democracies, we see shades of this futility. Recall the Watergate scandal in the United States: an overreach of power that forced President Nixon’s resignation, not because America lacked laws, but because one man believed his political survival was above the rule of law. In Zimbabwe, Robert Mugabe’s prolonged hold on power may have begun with promises of liberation but ended with economic collapse and national despair. In all these, the lesson is the same: unchecked power, exercised without restraint, consumes itself.

The real victims of Rivers’ crisis are not the gladiators in high office; they will always find soft landings. The true casualties are the people, the market woman in Port Harcourt whose business was disrupted by endless protests and palpable fears, the civil servant whose progress and commitment are beclouded by uncertainties, the student whose classroom leaks under the rain because the funds for renovation are trapped in political crossfire.

What is often forgotten in the heat of power play is that governance is not an abstract exercise; it is the daily bread of the people. When leaders quarrel, roads go untarred, hospitals go unequipped, and children go unfed. To reduce governance to a chessboard of egos is to mortgage the people’s welfare for vanity. This, tragically, is the recurring story in Nigeria’s democratic experiment.

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Philosophers have long wrestled with the meaning of power. Shakespeare, in Macbeth, captured it as “a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.” The story of Rivers is a fresh Nigerian adaptation of this drama. For months, power appeared to belong to one, then another, and then another still. Yet in the end, it was revealed that no one truly wielded power in its purest sense, because power without legitimacy, without the consent of the governed, and without the peace to implement vision, is no power at all.

The futility of the Rivers crisis holds lessons for Nigeria as a whole. Across our federation, godfatherism continues to haunt governance. From Lagos to Kano, from Anambra to Oyo, the tussle between political benefactors and their protégés has become a recurring decimal. Rarely do these battles end in progress for the people; more often than not, they end in paralysis.

The comparison need not be far-fetched. Look at Kenya, where post-election violence in 2007 consumed more than 1,000 lives and displaced hundreds of thousands. The fault line was political ego, the refusal to let the people’s will stand unchallenged. It took the Kofi Annan-led mediation to restore peace. In the Democratic Republic of Congo, decades of instability trace back to leaders who personalised power, treating the state as property and the people as pawns.

Rivers may not have descended into outright war, but the undertones of instability remind us that democracy is not guaranteed; it must be guarded. When politicians play roulette with the rule of law, they court a descent into chaos that ultimately swallows everyone.

The Rivers episode should compel us to reflect on the foundations of Nigeria’s democracy. For too long, politics has been driven not by institutions but by personalities. Our allegiance is more to godfathers than to constitutions, more to individuals than to principles. Yet sustainable governance is only possible when the rule of law, not the whims of men, governs the game.

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What does this mean in practice? It means state assemblies must not be reduced to errand boys of powerful interests. It means governors must respect their oaths of office, governing for all, not just for loyalists. It means party structures must operate with transparency, giving room for dissent without retribution. Above all, it means citizens must rise in defence of their democracy, insisting that their mandate cannot be traded on the altar of ego.

The Rivers drama may be easing, but the scars remain. It was a sobering reminder that power, when divorced from service, becomes poison. That democracy, when stripped of rule of law, becomes anarchy. That in the final analysis, no one truly wins when the people lose.

From the godfathers to the godsons, from the lawmakers to the electorate, we must all acknowledge a shared truth: we are losers when power games eclipse governance. The real triumph is not in who sits in Government House, but in whether that House delivers schools, hospitals, jobs, and peace.

Let Rivers be a lesson to Nigeria: that power is not an end in itself, but a means to service. That peace is not weakness, but strength. And that the greatest legacy any leader can leave is not monuments of ego, but institutions that outlast them.

For if Rivers has taught us anything, it is that governance cannot happen in a state of anarchy, and the futility of power is revealed when its pursuit leaves the people broken. Let us, therefore, rise to build a democracy where power serves the people, not the other way round.